


The Awkward Age

by mydogwatson



Series: Virtual Postcard Tales [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Retirementlock, different first meeting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:46:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26821612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: It’s never too late.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Virtual Postcard Tales [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1827328
Comments: 37
Kudos: 102





	The Awkward Age

**Author's Note:**

> When this title popped up, I knew just what kind of Virtual Postcard Tale it would be. It was the perfect opportunity for some fluffy teenlock. But something else altogether came out and 6000 words later here we are. Retirementlock, I guess. But in the end, I find myself pleased with it. So I hope you will enjoy it. Let me know!

_Abandon all hope ye who enter here._

That was from Dante, wasn’t it? Something about hell?

Of course, in reality, those were not the words over the iron gate through which the car was passing at the moment. But they might as well have been, because seeing the sign [which actually read _Happy Valley Residential and Convalescent  
Home_] brought the same feelings of doom and hopelessness to him.

A cheerful voice interrupted his misery.

“Come, now, John, you needn’t have that thunder face. This is a perfectly lovely place. Used to be the country pile of some rich Victorian industrialist. Lord Something or other.”

He did not bother to reply to his doctor, Young Stamford. ‘Young’ because he was not that long out of medical school and only John’s physician because Old Stamford had recently retired. And now Old Watson was being deposited at the very place where the ancient went to die.

“I am not ancient!” John finally muttered.

“Of course not,” Stamford replied, pulling to a stop in front of the massive white building. “And you are not becoming a resident. Think of this as just a little holiday, until you regain some strength. That pneumonia really knocked you for six.”

John thought that he could have put his feet up just fine in his flat.

“People say once you go into a place like this, you never come out,” he said petulantly.

“What people say that?”

John did not want to admit that the words had come from a very drunk man he had once met in a pub. “Just people.”

Stamford only laughed. “Come along, John.”

If he was so creaky that he belonged here, John decided, he had no business carrying either one of his own bags, so Stamford grabbed them both and led the way into the building. John followed glumly, deeply resenting the fact that these days he was being made to use the hated stick again. Every tap of it against the pavement was like a blow to his soul.

_Abandon all hope..._

*

It took only an hour for Stamford and the much-too-perky manager to settle all the details and for John to be ensconced in the small room up on the first floor. There was a lift, of course, but he had already decided that he would use the carpeted stairs whenever possible. It was a small—but possibly necessary—act of rebellion.

Once he was alone in the room and having refused the offer of a cute blonde nurse to help him unpack, John simply stood at the window for a long time. Several people were playing croquet on the vast green lawn below. More were sitting in wicker chairs or in wheelchairs; some conversed or watched the match, but many just seemed to be staring into space.

So this was what it all came down to.

John thought that he had lived a pretty good life. Some ups and downs, of course. He’d been to war, which ended badly, but which had also given him the chance to see heroism and sacrifice first hand. There had been a brief marriage to a woman who turned out to be much different than what she had pretended to be. Secrets and lies and betrayal. A baby that belonged to someone else.

He did not like to believe any of that had made him bitter, but acknowledged that it had made him a more careful man. So careful, in fact, that he never dared to go in search of love again. Oh, he had some friends to spend pub evenings with or to take in a football match when Tottenham was playing. A few women [and even fewer men] to have dinner with and perhaps more than dinner. And he had his work.

If sometimes John Watson imagined that he had been meant for a different life altogether, a life filled with excitement and passion, it was easy to dismiss those thoughts as just a foolish fantasy. He could dream of adventure, of late night chases through dark London streets, of leaping from rooftop to rooftop, but in the daylight nothing ever happened to him.

Still, by most measures he’d lived a fine life and if it had been winding down of late, well, he supposed that was just what happened. But a stupid fall on an unexpectedly icy step [coming from the gym, ironically] led to three broken ribs. By the time those ribs were mostly healed, the pneumonia had set in, felling him like nothing had since the infection after his war injury in Afghanistan.

Young Stamford had insisted that he needed rest and therapy and John had not really had the energy with which to argue. Now, he sighed and turned from the window to start unpacking. Each item he hung in the wardrobe or placed in one of the few drawers, even the several DVDs he set next to the small telly, all seemed to anchor him ever more firmly to this place.

*

If he did not turn up for dinner, John assumed that some do-gooder would show up at his door to be sure that he hadn’t suddenly dropped dead. Also, he was feeling quite peckish. So at 18:00, he ran a comb through his hair, smoothed the front of his shirt and headed for the dining room.

Most of the chairs around the many tables were already occupied, but a buxom woman in a ghastly pink blouse waved him over, pointing at an empty chair. “Fresh blood,” one of the men sitting at the table muttered, as John sat. “Beware.”

Everyone laughed, as if it were a familiar joke.

Far too many names were thrown his direction; to all of them, John just smiled and nodded. The residents were more cheerful than he had expected, although much of the levity seemed forced, almost desperate. The food was good, at least, and as he ate the salmon, au gratin potatoes, and green beans, John let the chatter wash over him without really paying any attention.

His gaze skimmed the room and his physician’s eyes gave him a pretty good idea of which of the diners were in ill health and which were just old. There was a wide variety of canes, a number of walkers, several wheelchairs.

No dancing after dinner, then, he supposed.

There were several small tables scattered around the room, each seating what he presumed were couples living in the home together. John could not decide if that was a happy thing or a sad thing. He supposed it depended upon the couple.

Abruptly, his roving gaze halted.

One small table was shoved into the corner and only one person was sitting there.

Even though he _was_ sitting, it was obvious that the man was tall. Slender. With a mess of silver curls and a closed expression on his sharp-featured face. It took a moment before John realised that the man was staring at him as well. Neither looked away for a long moment.

The lady in pink poked her sharp elbow into his ribs and he barely managed to keep from snapping at her because it _hurt._ “What?” he said testily.

“You don’t want to waste your time being friendly with that man,” she said. “He is very unpleasant.”

There was a bark of laughter. “Well, Margery always hates any new man who turns up and doesn’t want to court her,” someone said. “But in this case, she’s quite right. Holmes is rude and stand-offish.”

One man with bushy black brows cast a dark look towards the corner. “When he does talk to anyone...well, just leave it that he is quite impossible.”

It was time for pudding and everyone devoted themselves to the Victoria sponge.

When John looked back at the table in the corner, the man [Holmes, was it?] had left.

*

It was foolish, probably, but John missed the nighttime noises of London.

For so many years, living in his small, but pleasant flat not far from Bart’s, he had fallen asleep to the low and constant rumble of traffic, the shrill sirens of ambulances, the drunken shouts of passing pedestrians. An odd sort of lullaby, perhaps, but it had worked for him.

But out here in the country, it was much too quiet. An occasional rustling of the breeze through the trees. The distant sound of a plane heading for Heathrow. Once in a while, a nurse would walk past his room, her rubber-soled shoes whispering of vigilance. None of it was enough.

Finally, John gave up his efforts to sleep. He would be tired for his first therapy session in the morning, but it couldn’t really be helped. He got out of the bed [which was actually more comfortable than his own] and switched on the lamp, deciding to make a cuppa. He had just filled the electric kettle and opened the box of Tetley’s teabags when, unexpectedly, there was a soft tap on his door.

John scowled. No doubt one of those vigilant nurses, having seen the light leaking from under the door, was wondering why he was up at this hour. Privacy was apparently a thing of the past. Still, he planted a decently pleasant smile on his face as he opened the door.

It was not a nurse standing there.

Instead, it was a tall, slender man, with silver curls, clad in pyjamas and a dark blue silk dressing gown. This close, John could see the man’s eyes, green and platinum and much too clever and knowing for a resident of a place like this.

“Holmes?” John said, not even realising that he had remembered the name until he said it.

A quicksilver smile. “I know this is an unorthodox hour at which to call,” Holmes said in a posher than posh voice, which somehow made John think of dark golden honey being slowly poured from a cut-crystal pitcher. “But I wonder if I might intrude upon you briefly?”

“Is something wrong?” John asked, already stepping aside to admit his unexpected visitor.

“No doubt,” Holmes said, closing the door behind himself. “Something usually is, don’t you find, Dr Watson?” Then he smiled again, a more genuine expression this time. “Oh, you have the kettle on! Excellent. Milk and two sugars, please.” Then he whirled around, the dressing gown floating in his wake, and began to stare through the spy hole in the door.

John stood there for a moment, blinking, until finally he went to make two cups of tea. One with milk and two sugars, which he then carried over to the man at the door. Who took it with a grunt, which might have been a thank you. There seemed little point in just standing there as well, so John took his own cup and went to sit.

Still staring out at the hallway, taking an occasional sip of tea, Holmes spoke again. “Was your long ago war Iraq or Afghanistan?” he asked.

“Excuse me?”

Holmes sighed heavily. “I dislike repeating myself.”

“Afghanistan. But how do you know that?”

Instead of responding to the question, Holmes lifted the cup. “Good tea, by the way.”

“You’re welcome, Mr Holmes,” John said drily.

“Sherlock,” was the absent reply.

“John.”

“You clearly have a military background,” he began. “Judging by your age, those two conflicts seem the most likely.”

“Oh, you are clever.” The words were said lightly.

“I am, yes.”

Brat, John decided. “Not to be nosey, but are you ever going to tell me what is going on?” John asked.

Sherlock looked at him for a moment and John had never felt so scrutinised or so judged. And then something very subtle shifted in those remarkable and terrifying eyes. “Yes, John, I will tell you.” He glanced at the clock on the front of the telly. “Apparently, nothing is going to happen tonight anyway.” He left the door and took the chair opposite John, then looked sadly into his now-empty cup.

John sighed and got up to make more tea for them both. He also opened the package of chocolate HobNobs that Young Stamford had left for him. Setting it all on the small table between the chairs, he sat again. “So, Sherlock Holmes, why are you running around in the middle of the night in your dressing gown, startling people and spying on the corridor?”

Sherlock smirked at him. “You are a difficult man to startle, John Watson.”

“For someone who never met me before an hour ago, you seem to know a lot about me.”

“Of course I do. You were a soldier and a doctor. One sibling, but you don’t get on. Married once years ago, but it ended badly. No serious relationships since then. You like football, vintage James Bond films, and have been bored for far too long. Until tonight, in fact.” He stopped and sipped tea smugly. How did one sip bloody tea _smugly?_

John stared at him. “You really are brilliant, aren’t you? Why are you living in this mausoleum?”

“I’m here undercover, of course.”

John raised a brow. “Aren’t you a bit old to be a policeman?”

Sherlock glared at him. “Actually, I’m much too _clever_ to be a policeman. I am a consulting detective. When the idiots at the Yard are out of their depth, which is always, they come to me.” Then he frowned. “I am surprised you haven’t heard of me, since I have been in the news many times over the years.”

Ridiculously, John felt rather badly that he could not remember ever having heard of Sherlock Holmes.

Even more ridiculously, he was quite delighted to have met him now.

“I will look you up,” he promised.

“Ignore the bits about the hat,” Sherlock said mysteriously.

“Okay,” John said, because what else could he say? “So...undercover?”

“Yes. Looking for a murderer.” He announced that as if mentioning that they were out of milk.

John stared at him. “A murder? Here?”

“Actually, two murders,” Sherlock corrected.

“Well, the management might let a person know that before he moved in,” John said huffily.

“Oh, they don’t know,” Sherlock said. “They accepted them as natural deaths.”

His tone was much too breezy, in John’s opinion. “And the police?”

“None of the idiots I know are still on the force. These days I do mostly private cases.”

John had no idea what to say to all of this. Was it possible that this charming and devastatingly attractive [although that was not really relevant] man was, in fact, a bit mad? Some mild dementia? Perhaps he should push the emergency button and summon help.

Sherlock sighed. “An acquaintance of mine from some years ago was living here. She contacted me a few weeks ago because another resident had died suddenly.”

“Someone dying in a place like this hardly warrants an undercover detective, I wouldn’t think.”

“Irene was convinced that the death was not from natural causes. She knew the woman well.”

“So you came to investigate simply on her word?”

Something new crossed Sherlock’s face. Regret, perhaps? Guilt? Sadness? He looked away. “No. I dismissed it, much as you just did.” He paused. “A few days later, Irene died as well. Another ‘natural’ death, they said. A convenient one, I thought. So here I am.”

John was quiet for a long moment. “You were close, this Irene woman and you?”

Sherlock dismissed the words with a wave. “We were friends. Nothing more.” He flickered a brief smile at him. “She was a lesbian and I’m gay. Not exactly a romance written in the stars.”

“Ah,” John said, not even knowing what his response was supposed to mean. “So do you have any suspects?”

“Three. Maybe four.” Then Sherlock stood. “Thank you for the tea. I apologise for the intrusion.” He started for the door.

“Hey, Mr Sherlock Holmes, hold up there.”

He paused.

“You can’t just come in here and talk about murder and then leave.”

Sherlock did not turn to look at him. “Oh, this is much too dangerous for you to be involved in, John. I am dealing with a ruthless killer . Besides, you are here for some peace and quiet whilst you recover, not to pursue a criminal.”

“Listen up, you bloody posh boy, I’m not just some old fart. I was a soldier, remember.” Before Sherlock could speak, John stood, completely forgetting his cane and went to the wardrobe. He took his small case down from the shelf. Opening it, he went to the hidden compartment and a moment later took out his pistol, holding it up. “Might come in handy dealing with a killer, don’t you think?”

Sherlock was just watching him, a faint smile on his lips. “It has been a very long time since anyone called me a boy of any kind. Even a posh one.”

John replaced the gun and put the case back into the wardrobe. Then, as realisation struck, he looked sharply at Sherlock. “You weren’t actually trying to put me off at all, were you?”

“Why would I do that?” Sherlock said with blatantly false innocence.

They just looked at one another for a moment and then Sherlock slipped out the door and John was alone again.

But he was smiling as he turned off the light and went back to bed.

*

Breakfast was offered buffet style, between 07:00 and 09:00.

John had slept remarkably well and awoken with the thought that maybe the events of last night had all been a dream. But the two used teacups spoke of the truth. He caught himself whistling as he dressed and then smiling as he walked into the dining room. The over-eager lady from dinner the night before was sitting with two other women and she waved vigorously at him. John gave her a half-smile, but his eyes went directly to the corner and the small table there. Where Sherlock Holmes was sitting.

John made his way to the buffet, where he filled a plate with scrambled eggs, bacon, beans and some fried bread, asking that tea be brought to him. He gave the ladies one more nod, then walked over to the corner and gestured at the second chair. “May I?”

Sherlock was slathering honey on a slice of toast. “It would be churlish of me to refuse, given the way I invaded your room last night.”

Not entirely sure if that was actually permission to sit or not, John did so anyway.

Sherlock eyed his plate. “The condemned man ate a hearty breakfast...”

John snickered. “It’s only a physical therapy session. I expect to survive.” He ate for a few moments.

Sherlock apparently thought that toast with far too much honey was an acceptable breakfast. “You do realise that your reputation is now ruined with the ladies of Happy Valley, don’t you?”

He shrugged. “I have no interest in the ladies of Happy Valley.”

“Indeed?” Almost daintily, Sherlock dabbed at a stray bit of honey on his chin. “So you have given up on seeking the pleasures of the flesh?”

John was a bit puzzled about just where this conversation was going, but decided that it couldn’t hurt to pursue it. “Don’t think I said that.” He layered eggs on the final slice of fried bread and looked at Sherlock. “What about you? No lady friend waiting for your return, I assume. Perhaps someone else?”

“‘No one is awaiting my return,” he said brusquely.

John was aware that he smiled a bit at that, but then decided to change the subject. “You like honey, I see.”

Sherlock licked an apparently sticky finger slowly. “Well, I do. But this is mediocre. Store-bought. My honey is much better.”

“Your honey?”

“I keep bees and the bees make honey.”

John just shook his head. “You keep bees in London?”

Sherlock was casting his gaze over the room, looking for the killer probably. “I have a cottage in Sussex.” The grin was small, but genuine. “For when I get old.” Then he shrugged. “I spent most of my time there now.”

“Sounds nice,” John said, forgetting completely how much he had hated the quiet of the country just the night before. Somehow, the idea of a cottage in Sussex, with Sherlock Holmes, sounded...good.

Then he dismissed that thought as just another of his foolish fantasies.

He straightened in the chair and got practical. “So, what time shall I expect you this evening?”

Sherlock raised a brow at him. 

“We are still planning on—“ He lowered his voice. “—catching a killer, right?”

“Seriously, John, upon further consideration, I don’t think that is a good idea.”

John shrugged. “Too bad. You should not have come into my bedroom last night.” John realised that he probably should have lowered his voice again, but it was too late now. 

Sherlock smirked at him.

John ducked his head and finished his tea.

“I have an appointment with the shrink,” Sherlock announced cheerfully. “To discuss my attitude and failure to adapt to my new living situation.”

“Have fun,” John replied.

As Sherlock moved past him, he bent slightly. “Ten tonight,” he said softly. And then he swept out of the dining room, like a flamboyant actor leaving the stage. John just shook his head. Again. Holmes seemed to inspire such a reaction. When he realised that the ladies at the other table were staring at him, he gave them a smile.

*

The appointment with the physical therapist went well. As explained by the unnecessarily chipper young man, their main goal was to rebuild his strength. A kind professional, he tried to be pleasant about it, but was not encouraging about the likelihood of John dispensing with the cane. Ever.

John did not argue the point or mention that the night before he had managed just fine without the stick, but instead just did the exercises as ordered and chatted about football.

Afterwards, he took a long walk around the garden, pretending that he was not at all hoping to spot a tall, curly-haired git. While John was not quite ready yet to pry too deeply in what was clearly a certain attraction, he did not think it was entirely one-sided.

It was far from the first time he’d been attracted to a man, although only rarely had anything come of it. But, back then, he’d been much younger, not an old man with a bloody walking stick. Foolish to muse about such things, he decided, and went inside for lunch.

Sandwiches, salads, crisps, soup.

And no Sherlock Holmes.

He thought about sitting at ‘their’ table anyway, which made him laugh at his foolishness, but then decided that perhaps it would be more useful to do a little detecting himself. If his goal was really to impress Sherlock and not so much to play detective, he didn’t let that bother him greatly. Although any chance that he could actually impress that smug bastard was probably extremely small.

He put a friendly smile on his face as he sat between a plump woman in a jogging suit and the outgoing woman, Margery, from his first meal. “Lovely day, isn’t it?” John said to the table at large.

A couple of people mumbled a response.

Margery took a delicate bite of her tuna mayo sandwich, chewed and swallowed. “No Mr Holmes today?” she asked.

John shrugged. “No idea where he is.”

She looked pleased at that. “Well, we did warn you.”

“Indeed.” John added some more mustard to his roast beef sandwich and tried to speak casually. “Someone mentioned to me that there had been a couple of unexpected deaths here recently. No one warned me about _that!_ ”

The man sitting across from him snorted. “Put a bunch of geriatrics together in a place like this and no death is really unexpected.”

“Well, the last time I saw Miss Adler she seemed healthy enough,” the plump woman said. “Although she was very sad about the passing of her friend Miss Hall.”

“Friend,” Margery said with a roll of her eyes.

The man fixed John with a hard stare. “ _Your_ friend Holmes is always asking a lot of questions. Are you doing his dirty work now?”

John shrugged. “Not at all. I was just curious.” He smiled brightly and ripped open his little bag of Walker’s Salt Vinegar crisps. “Now, who can tell me about the Friday night bingo games?”

He looked around the table cheerfully.

*

John was surprised to see Sherlock that afternoon, albeit briefly.

After lunch, he’d decided to have a swim, as the therapist had suggested. The pool was otherwise deserted and so he did solitary laps for a few minutes. He was unaware of anyone else entering the room until he pulled himself out of the water and saw Sherlock leaning against the tiled wall. His arms were crossed and a faint smile was on his lips as his gaze moved down John’s wet body and up again.

John, ridiculously, felt himself reddening. It wasn’t the scar on his shoulder that embarrassed him; that had been a part of his body for a very long time. Such a long time that he was now old, with the flesh of an old man. But he saw no hint of disapproval or disdain in the eyes that were raking over his form. Instead, he saw admiration and what looked to him like barely hidden heat.

It was overwhelming.

“Oh, hello,” he finally managed to say, reaching for his robe. “What’s up?”

Sherlock blinked several times before seeming to collect himself. “Just confirming that you are still up for confronting a killer tonight.”

“Of course,” John said immediately. Then he looked up from putting his shoes on. “What? You know who the killer is?”

“Well, I have it narrowed down. I will know for sure when we see who turns up for the rendezvous later.”

“A rendezvous with a killer?” John couldn’t help snickering. “Sounds like very bad film.”

Sherlock almost smiled. “You have just described my life.” Then he whirled around and headed for the door.

“See you later then,” John said loudly.

He got a wave in reply.  
*

John was not really hungry for dinner, but he thought that perhaps he should keep to his usual routine so as not to arouse suspicion. And then he mocked himself for falling into the melodrama that seemed to surround one Sherlock Holmes. Or maybe it was farce. But at the same time, he could not remember when he had enjoyed himself so much. Maybe the truth was never.

So he went to the dining room and ate shepherd’s pie and chatted about some show on telly that he had never seen. The very old man with whom he was talking seemed satisfied with John’s occasional nod or “Yes, indeed.” For a brief moment, John pictured himself so much older, still sitting here talking about things that did not matter with people who bored him.

It terrified him.

He finished eating quickly and returned to his room. Not entirely sure what one should wear for meeting [capturing?] a killer, he put on black sweatpants and a black jumper. He retrieved the gun from its hiding place and then he waited.

At 21:45 he moved to stand by the door and look out through the spy hole, in case Sherlock came a few minutes early.

Sherlock did not come a few minutes early.

Nor did he come at 22:00.

Or 22:15.

By 22:30, John was no longer standing at the door. Instead, he was pacing the room, trying to understand what was going on. Was it possible that this whole thing was nothing but a ruse? Some sick joke that a bored resident of a care home had decided to play on the newbie? Or—although he hated to think of this—perhaps Sherlock really was suffering from some sort of dementia.

But then, angrily, John shook his head.

No. Not possible.

Clearly, whatever Grand Plan Sherlock had devised had gone wrong. Which no doubt meant that he was in trouble. For just a moment, John’s mind forgot the danger and the murders, remembering only the way Sherlock’s eyes had taken in the sight of him as he climbed out of the pool earlier. There had been promise in the moment and John knew that he had to do something to redeem that promise or his life would become what he feared the most. Friday night bingo and coach trips to the seaside.

He touched the gun for reassurance and left his room, having no idea where he needed to go.

It was easy to get down the stairs and out the door. Residents, save a few in the locked wing, were allowed to go out, at least until midnight when the doors were locked. In the event, the attendant at the front desk was busy on the phone and did not even notice him leave.

Once outside and concealed in the shadows, John paused, only then realising that while he had remembered to bring the gun, the cane was still in his room.

_Think bad movie. Villain and hero. Rendezvous in the night._

_At an old people’s care home._

It was so absurd.

And then the answer came to him and he set off as quickly as he could move, towards the copse he had unexpectedly discovered during his walk earlier. It was not the trees themselves that interested him, but the hidden, ramshackle folly which had surprised and delighted him. But now, it seemed like the perfect place for some kind of confrontation. It was unbelievable, of course, this whole thing, but somehow, knowing Sherlock Holmes made anything seem possible. Even a showdown with a killer at midnight in a ruined folly.

Made it also seem like the best of times might still be to come.

He heard faint voices and saw the pale light cast by a camp lantern hanging in the folly and stopped behind a massive oak. Sherlock was in the middle of the folly, on his knees, with his hands tied behind his back. Worryingly, he was swaying slightly and his head was bent.

John had no idea who the man pacing a circle around Sherlock might be. He was entirely average looking: height, weight, fair hair, wearing blue jeans and a camouflage jacket. This was a murderer? He looked more like a guy who would serve you a latte at Nero’s.

John strained to hear what was being said.

“...stupid old man! You should have just kept your nose out of my business.”

“When you kill a friend of mine it becomes my business, Maxwell.”

“She didn’t matter! Neither one of those old bitches mattered.”

Sherlock lifted his head a bit. “Irene would have been disappointed to hear that. Once upon a time, she had kings and prime ministers at her feet.” John thought he could see an almost smile touch Sherlock’s lips. “She even defeated me and no one else ever did.”

“Until now, you mean,” the young man said with a sneer.

“Possibly. Although if you put a bullet in my brain it will hardly be labelled as death by natural causes.”

For the first time, John noticed the gun.

“It will be labelled a suicide by a lonely old man stuck in a badly run home. Who will care? Only someone who might be thinking about sending grandma here.”

John decided that enough was enough. Silently, he slipped the gun from his pocket and raised it, before stepping out from his hiding place. “Actually, I would care,” he said calmly, pointing the pistol at Maxwell.

After one stunned, frozen moment the young man grabbed Sherlock’s hair and pulled until the barrel of the pistol was pressed against Sherlock’s temple. “Don’t come any closer,” he said, a note of hysteria in his voice.

“Don’t need to,” John replied pleasantly. He fired once. Maxwell gave a shriek and fell to the floor, clutching at his knee. For an old man, John thought, he moved very quickly into the folly, kicking Maxwell’s gun out reach. “If you would like to have at least one working kneecap, I suggest you stay very still.” He might have been advising a patient to eat more vegetables and get some exercise.

“Good shot,” Sherlock said.

“As you said, I was a soldier.” He reached into his pocket again, then swore softly. “Forgot my mobile.”

“Untie me,” Sherlock said a bit testily, “And I can use mine.”

“Oh, right.” John glanced at Maxwell; the man was whimpering, but did not appear to pose any kind of threat. John stepped behind Sherlock and got to work on the cord. When he had it untied, he rested both hands on Sherlock’s back for a few moments, just touching him. Neither of them spoke.

Finally, Sherlock reached for his phone and punched 999.

*

It was nearly three hours later before all the legal niceties were completed. It all turned out to be almost painfully banal. A pathologically devoted son who blamed Happy Valley for the death of his aged mother and who had determined to tarnish the home’s reputation beyond repair by a series of unexpected deaths. Sad and useless. 

Much of that time, John spent sitting alone on a sofa in the lobby, unnecessary to the process by then, but unwilling to leave. He watched Sherlock across the room, unable to hear what was being said, but entertained by the ballet that was Sherlock Holmes in motion.

He tried not to think too much about one memory above all else from the night: the feel of the flesh and bones of Sherlock’s back. The warmth. The muscles shifting under his hands.

It was embarrassing to realise that he had apparently dozed off, which he only became aware of when Sherlock bent over him, touching his arm lightly. “John?”

John hoped that he had not drooled onto the cushion or snored loudly enough to be heard. “Oh, sorry,” he said, being properly British.

“Time to go upstairs.”

“Right, right...”

By the time Sherlock had guided him into the lift, John was fully awake. They did not speak, however, until they were safely in John’s room. “Well,” John finally said, when no other words came to mind.

And then Sherlock pushed him against the wall and kissed him.

After a moment of genuine astonishment, John became an enthusiastic participant and, very soon, the one who introduced tongue into the picture. It had been more than a few years since John had been in an extended snogging session like this one, but the skills involved came back to him quickly. He also deduced [like a detective] that Sherlock was not terribly practised at the art or science of the snog. But that mattered not at all, because when Sherlock kissed, he devoted every one of his brain cells to the act. Having so much attention focussed on him was exhilarating to John.

At some point, they moved to sit on the bed and the urgency slowed a bit, became comfortable, almost like a familiar ritual.

Eventually they pulled apart and just looked at one another. “I’d given up,” Sherlock said after a moment, making it sound like a confession.

“On me coming to rescue you?” John reached out with one hand and pushed soft silver curls from Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock shook his head, sending the curls tumbling again. “No. I gave up on you ever appearing at all. I waited for so long. My whole life, really.”

John almost said that he didn’t understand, but then he stared into the infinite depth of those solemn green eyes and suddenly he understood everything. Everything. It might have been a heartbreaking realisation, but John set that aside to concentrate on the moment in which they were living now. It was all that mattered. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “But I’m here at last.”

They shifted into an embrace and then somewhat awkwardly lay back on the bed, still wrapped together. There was so much to be said and all those words would eventually be spoken. Not on this night, however. 

There were things to be learned, edges of personalities to be fitted together, bodies that would discover the music they could make together. Not quite yet, however.

For now, only one thing mattered. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were two men who had journeyed so far, for so very long, to reach this moment and all they wanted on this night was to rest in one another’s arms. To know that their journey was now ended in the only place it could end.

And, knowing that, in one another’s arms, they slept.

*

_There is a certain part of all of us_  
that lives outside of time.—Kundera, M.  
**

**Author's Note:**

> Title From: The Awkward Age by Henry James


End file.
